Word Vomit Challenge 2018: 290118



January 64th. The stubble on my chin has been growing for T minus one

decade. February still has 45 days in a month where strangers want my hair

shortened to compensate for the long days; Every second given is a hormonal pill

losing effectiveness. Every day a wedding dress tears if I wore it in my head. Every

day marriage to me is eating fast food and passing it out without gaining nutrients. Every

day love becomes a beer that hammers me into blacking out from all that pain. One day

I might wash my skin out once I am done with clearing my makeup. On the 89th

I stare at this laptop screen. By the 93rd day of the week I am bingeing on illusions of

myself dragging my limp figure from the shore, squeezing every acupoint with salvaged warmth.


Word Vomit Challenge 2018: 280118

Scandinavian fixtures and the Space Age interior;

The brushed steel and pale wood will be delivered

tomorrow. Outside, an uncle sweep the ashes from red

altars the point blankness of an aircon light – Their rooms

are dim even in the morning; The primary school child squints

and divines their future. The primary school child might

dream of white teak tables and bleached walls and realize

how empty the visions of people in the past were. Everyone

forgets decor is still delivered by the laborious and not machines,

because machines do not pray for a windfall. Whether tomorrow

comes or not, they will struggle to light joss sticks with the light of smart screens,

decide on whether praying to altars or asking Google is the more efficient approach.

Word Vomit Challenge 2018: 250118

Use LRT tracks as shelter, where the

underside is always dry, a canopy for your

wonder from above and recording stares

in the number of raindrops on tarmac. If

we disappear it still joins the sky, daring

foliage to return being greater than civilization,

and the red chairs of coffeeshops bloom with creepers

creeping and growing and enticing symbiosis since only

we had the chance to marry our creations. A Koel changes

a song to one that no one can imitate but no one is present

either, so it cranes a neck towards summer showers – Towards

the shadows cast from stone Gods that record and

narrate the passing eons in the day; Sundials to the

awe of the living.


Word Vomit Challenge 2018: 230118

Maybe when I am eighty i’ll dye my hair white, for it might have lost less darkness than I have gained in parchments – Wrinkles, memorabilia, thousands of ancient PDF documents. When i’m hundred i’ll whisper to the stars that they can be young. Two hundred years of age, if attainable, will be an incentive to sleep with machines and love their groaning, creaking, and the scratch marks, paint spots on their synthetic skin. A thousand years might pass and my bones might scream, about having too many descendants to able to donate bone marrow to – But technology has long superseded my emotional capacity, and I start to hear the lunar soil croon from a long slumber. Ten thousand years of age and i’m gas in Jupiter’s stratosphere, turbulent, in love with Brownian motion and its assurance that what goes around comes around. Spread my consciousness to the filaments and the voids once I become as old as humanity, for there is no End to Greatness, no end to beauty and the memory of life and death, the warm hands of either.